Pages

.

Saturday, October 08, 2011

"Ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down?"

The year was 1974, and we were living in a split-level house on Long Island, in the state of New York. We'd moved there a year earlier, the fifth long-distance relocation my family had made in the first five years of my marriage to my second (and last and best) husband. I was happy there that year.

I liked our house. The public school there was the best my daughters had ever attended. And, because we expected to stay there for a while, I'd gone back to work in a job I enjoyed. Life was good, and because it was so good, I was anxious. My husband was a rambling man, and I knew it was just a matter of time until he'd crave a change of scenery.

I'd never complained about the frequent moves because I trusted my husband to do the best he could for our family. But I am now, and was back then, a nester at heart. I wanted us to stay put but felt that asking for that might come across as a criticism of the way my husband chose to provide for us. And he provided well.

Then, one day in 1974, a song played on the radio that I loved instantly. I bought the 45 rpm record and played it over and over, hoping that somehow he would identify with the lyrics as much as I did. In the end, I guess he did.

Six years later, after two more moves, each of us was still clinging to the "he said" or "she said" point of view expressed in the song, clinging until he went to California alone and I stayed home.

That song is this Saturday's song selection: "Please Come to Boston" by Dave Loggins.*

Harriet, it is funny (not in a ha-ha way). Music definitely triggers memories for me, but I enjoy the little "time trips" immensely, and even memories of difficult times don't hold me in their grip the way they used to. Although I clearly remember the events I associate with certain songs, and remember what I was feeling THEN, my enjoyment of the music tends to overshadow any leftover bad feelings. Maybe I've managed to dump some baggage along the way, ya think?

Rottrover and Duly Inspired, I'd never thought about the idea that age gives one a new perspective of the meaning of song lyrics, but that makes SO much sense. And apparently a personal anecdote can do the same.

About Me

My Other Blogs

On the Internet to Find the Others

"Admit it. You aren't like them. You're not even close. You may occasionally dress yourself up as one of them, watch the same mindless television shows as they do, maybe even eat the same fast food sometimes. But it seems that the more you try to fit in, the more you feel like an outsider, watching the 'normal people' as they go about their automatic existences. For every time you say club passwords like 'Have a nice day' and 'Weather's awful today, eh?', you yearn inside to say forbidden things like 'Tell me something that makes you cry' or 'What do you think deja vu is for?' Face it, you even want to talk to that girl in the elevator. But what if that girl in the elevator (and the balding man who walks past your cubicle at work) are thinking the same thing? Who knows what you might learn from taking a chance on conversation with a stranger? Everyone carries a piece of the puzzle. Nobody comes into your life by mere coincidence. Trust your instincts. Do the unexpected. Find the others..."

--Timothy Leary

My Babies

Levi

Gimpy

Kadi: Jun 1997-Mar 2011

Butch: Mar 1998-Feb 2012

The Introvert

She cared for those trinkets as if they were cherished heirlooms, rarely displaying them in public. She stored them in protective velvet sacks, drawing them out only when she was alone or in the company of those she trusted to understand why the simple objects mattered. And as careful as she was to protect the trinkets, so she was cautious about sharing her words, and for the same reasons.